Damaged Goods
by cowgirlfromhell
Summary: When had he so conveniently forgotten Bobby's phone number? When had he given up on Sam? When had his life spiraled out of control? More importantly...when had he lost the keys to the Impala? One year after "Swan Song".
1. Chapter 1

When had he gained twenty pounds and gotten a beer gut?

When had whiskey taken the place of his morning coffee?

When had his laugh lines turned to crow's feet?

When had he started thinking of Lisa's girlfriends when he made love to her?

When had his hands started shaking so badly that he could barely aim a gun?

When had he so conveniently forgotten Bobby's phone number?

When had he given up on Sam?

When had his life begun to spiral out of control?

More importantly, when had he lost the keys to the Impala?

A cab dropped Dean Winchester off in front of Richard Chaney High School - a hell mouth if there ever was one, he thought. It looked like any other older high school in Middle America despite its recent facelift and new name, much like the ones he'd attended sporadically until he was old enough to drop out. He'd been raised like a Witness. Why waste time on getting an education when Armageddon was just around the corner? Maybe, if he hadn't wasted so much time in school and spent more time in the field, he could have saved his brother but what was done was done, right?

Dean sat down on the cement steps leading up to the school and pulled a flask from his jacket pocket. He unscrewed the top and tilted it back and almost purred like a cat when the smooth liquid slipped down his throat. He had high hopes for not only drowning his sorrows but his constant companions, guilt and remorse, too. He sighed and looked around at the neat, tree lined streets surrounding Ben's school and wondered how many rougarous lived next door, how many shtrigas lived just down the block, how many demons were right now sitting at the bus barn waiting for the three o'clock run. Sex offenders had to register but not these guys. Dean took one last pull from the flask and stood up. It was time to beard the lion in her den.

Principal Fielding had called the house all in a tizzy and, although she hadn't said exactly what Ben had done, he was in trouble...big trouble...big enough trouble that Dean hadn't called Lisa. He would go to bat for the squirt and calm the principal down then figuratively charm the pants off of her and, when all was said and done, Lisa would be none the wiser and the kid would owe him big time. Easier said than done.

Mrs. Fielding ignored Dean's killer smile and his outstretched hand. His boyish good looks were totally lost on her as was his clever wit. None of it was lost on Ben as he sat in a straight backed wooden bench that was against the back wall of Fielding's office hoping to just disappear. If Dean couldn't bull crap his way out of this, Ben thought, Fielding would tell his mother and all hell would break loose.

Principal Fielding took a deep breath and told Dean flat out that she was appalled at Ben's abject recklessness and apparent disregard for the safety of his fellow students and, when the boy opened his mouth to defend himself, Dean told him to shut up. The first of many hurtful blows.

"Mrs. Fielding, I understand that Ben can be a little disruptive in class but boys will be boys," Dean told her as he sat down next to Ben on the bench, ostensibly for support.

"Aside from the leather jacket and a little rough housing in the locker room, Ben's deportment has been exemplary," she told him and Dean wondered what the hell all the fuss was about. "But this incident can't be excused or overlooked and truthfully the only reason I haven't called the police is to protect the school."

"The police?" Dean went still and his hand itched to retrieve the flask in his pocket.

"Ben, do you want to tell your father what you brought to school with you today?" she asked and Ben shrank further down in his seat.

Dean turned to the boy and stared at him with eyes that were uncharacteristically hard and waited.

One minute passed, then another and Ben's palms began to sweat and his mouth dried out. Another minute passed and he felt as if his heart would burst .

Dean's head began to pound and his flask began to call to him. "Ben..." he started and the boy cut him off.

"He's not my father," Ben fairly shouted at the woman.

Principal Fielding was taken aback and asked "You're not?"

Dean cleared his throat and said, "Technically no, but..."

"Legal guardian?" Principal Fielding asked and Dean shook his head.

"Then I need to call his mother," she said curtly and she stepped into the outer office.

Dean turned to Ben and asked him, "Why'd you tell her, dude? We coulda been outta here Scott free and eating pizza at Marconi's."

Ben continued to sit in silence until Dean reached over and put his arm around the boy's shoulders. Then Ben began to cry.

"Aw, come on. It can't be that bad," Dean said trying to console him and the boy's tears just came harder.

"Am I gonna go to jail?" Ben wailed convinced that he was.

"No, you're not." Dean assured him but wasn't so sure about himself if Fielding did call in the cops, "It can't be that bad. What'd you bring to show and tell, bud? One of my Busty Asian Babes magazines?"

"No," Ben said reluctant to finish, "...a gun."

Dean couldn't believe his ears and repeated, "A gun?"

Ben nodded and wiped his runny nose on his sleeve.

Who's gun?" Dean asked, his voice taking on a hard edge that scared Ben.

"Your gun," Ben confessed, his voice barely a whisper.

"Where'd you get it?"

"The trunk of the Impala."

Dean's face paled as he thought of the arsenal the boy had had access to. Weapons of all kinds to hunt not the occasional pheasant or deer but to hunt the haunted, the perverted, the blood thirsty, the evil. "What else did you take?" he asked as anger overwhelmed concern.

"Nothin'" Ben couldn't look Dean in the eyes, the one sure tell of an unaccomplished liar, and he clutched his back pack tighter.

"So you're a thief and a liar!" Dean shouted just as Fielding, with Lisa in tow, came back into the room.

The boy's foolish prank and betrayal fueled Dean's anger and he yanked the backpack roughly out of Ben's arms despite the boy's protests. It hit the ground and a warn leather book slid out and hit Lisa's sneaker.

She stooped to pick up the journal staring in disbelief, first at her son, then at Dean but for completely different reasons. She couldn't believe that Dean had so carelessly left a gun where Ben could find it and that Ben had actually taken it and brought it to school. Then there was the matter of her boyfriend calling her son a liar and a thief.

But Dean was on a tear and didn't give her a second thought when he stood up and turned to Ben and accused him of taking the keys to the Impala.

The boy's face reddened with impotent fury and he lashed out, "Mom hides 'em 'cause most of the time you're too drunk to drive!"

Lisa crossed the room and stepped between her angry boyfriend and her frightened son. She shoved John's journal into Dean's chest and said curtly, "You need to leave, Dean." He started to protest and she could smell the liquor on his breath and reiterated forcefully, "You need to leave, now!"

Dean Winchester would never hit a woman, or a kid for that matter, but he wanted to hit something -hard - and in his less than sober state of mind the most practical outlet for his long building anger and frustration was the wall and, just like a professional picture hanger, he located the stud on the first try.


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as he walked through the door Lisa knew Dean was as high as a kite. She sat in the dark at the kitchen table waiting for him, back ramrod straight, her hands clenched together, her knuckles white and noticed that he walked, not so much with a swagger, but with a stagger.

Dean flipped on the light and the brand new cast that covered his brand new boxer's fracture shown whitely as he slipped off his leather jacked and, missing the hook, let it fall to the floor...where it stayed. He turned and, startled by her sudden appearance, reached for the .45 in his waistband. Oh yeah, it wasn't there. Benny boy had taken it to school for show and tell. "Did you get my gun back?" he asked her curtly. He turned his back on her and headed directly to the cabinet where the liquor was stored next to the cereal. The boxes of Captain Crunch, Froot Loops and his favorite, un-Lucky Charms, were lined up neatly side-by-side but the space next to them was empty.

"Nice to see you, too, Dean," Lisa said sarcastically, his belligerence and rude behavior hurtful and puzzling.

He turned back to her and opened both cabinet doors so she could see what she already knew and said, "Really, Lisa?"

"Down the drain," she told him and he groaned but with a crooked smile on his face.

Walking back to where his jacket lay on the floor, he bent over, wavered drunkenly a few times and retrieved his flask from the pocket. Standing back up he upended it and took a long swallow. He then walked to the table and sat heavily in the chair across from his girlfriend. "My gun?" he asked calmly clasping both hands around the flask.

It seemed to Lisa that he was more worried about the damn gun than about her son and it pissed her off. "You left a gun where my son could get it and all you care about is getting it back?"

Dean looked at her pinched face, saw the fury in her eyes and chose his words carefully. "You're damn straight. My father gave that gun to me when I was eight."

Loosing her temper, Lisa shouted across the table, "So you think it's all right for my son to have it? To take it to school?!"

"Oh, hell no! He stole it...out of a locked trunk," Dean countered and, following Lisa startled eyes, turned to see Ben standing in the living room doorway. He then added coldly, "And I'm not following in my father's footsteps and Ben's not following in mine."

"But I can help you," Ben cried out rushing into the kitchen to stand next to Dean, his eyes bright with anticipation, the monsters he'd read about in John Winchester's journal just that, monsters in a book, exciting and dangerous but so far only on paper.

Dean saw the look in the boy's eyes and hardened his heart. "Help me what, Ben? Help me give a shit when you hit the ball in Little League? Help me care that you get an A on a science test? Can you help me with that, huh? 'Cause I don't give a shit. I don't care!" Dean shouted the last of his revelations and the force of his angry voice and the pain of his words drove Ben back a few steps.

Tears welled in the boy's confused eyes but he wasn't totally defeated...yet. "I read the stuff in the book," he countered, "How your dad took you hunting, about how proud he was after your first kill. I can help you."

"You think I'm like my dad? That I'm gonna take you hunting?" he asked the kid and when Ben nodded his head Dean snorted, "John Winchester was a self serving, self centered bastard who put his need for revenge before the needs of his own sons. It wasn't enough that I was his good little soldier, taking care of Sammy since he was six months old and doing everything he asked of me. No, that wasn't enough. He had to go and make a deal with a demon." Oh, he was on a drunken roll now and would soon be crying in his beer, so to speak, if he didn't watch it. The pain Dean thought long dead had just been buried beneath the surface and he knew from experience, some things never stayed dead.

Ben backed away from Dean even more as the hunter's face paled and his eyes seemed to go wild and, when the boy made a move to leave the room, Dean turned on him and said in a deceivingly quiet voice. "My dad gave up his life to bring me back from the dead. There's no way in hell I'd ever do that for you."

There was a modicum of truth in what he said but it wasn't that he wouldn't do it _**for**_ Ben, it was that he wouldn't do it _**to**_ Ben. He would never put the kid in a situation where the sacrifice was so great that he would know for the rest of his days that he was undeserving.

Ben had had enough and turned his back on the both of them and walked away. In the living room he threw himself onto the couch and picked up the controller to his X-Box but, instead of turning it on, he just stared at the black screen of the television.

"What the hell was all that about?" Lisa demanded angrily and Dean wondered the same thing himself and instead of answering her he got up and followed Ben into the living room.

Lisa was a step ahead of him and again placed herself strategically between the man she loved and her son. "Why don't you go sleep it off?" she suggested.

Her voice was too low for Ben to hear and mildly threatening but Dean didn't want to fight with her. He knew he wasn't husband material, had known it almost from the start. He hadn't wanted to hurt her so he'd stayed, going through the motions, dying a little more each day and although he loved Ben as much as he was capable of he wasn't father material either. Little league bored him and the kid's school work was beyond him and being there for Ben brought him as much guilt as satisfaction. He should have been there for his brother; he should be there for Sammy...when he comes back.

"When I pictured myself happy it was with you and Ben," Dean started, his voice now calm and controlled, "But I guess that's all it was, a picture. Kind of like the happy family in the picture frames, Mom and Dad and the kids, all bright smiles, pretending to be a family when in reality they're total strangers in an ad." Dean picked up a framed photo from the fireplace mantel of the three of them and, even though it hurt him to look at it, he held it up for Lisa to see. "This isn't me, Lisa. I'm not Ben's dad any more than I'm your husband," he told her and steeled himself against the tears that started to fill her eyes.

"Why are you doing this?" she wanted to know and Dean just sighed and smiled crookedly but with resolve.

"Why do you have to be so mean?" Ben wanted to know, his lip curling as his hero worship turned to anger and disgust, his eyes still on the blank screen.

"Because there's only one person in the world I promised to take care of," Dean confessed.

Lisa knew it was Sam he spoke of, had known that some day it might come down to this, Dean making the choice to stay with them or to go off and try and find his brother. "Haven't you done enough for him? Christ, Dean, you went to hell for Sam," she reminded him although that was all he'd ever said about his sojourn to the underworld.

"And he went to hell for me, for all of us, so the pain and the suffering would stop."

"But it doesn't ever stop for you, does it, Dean? You won't let it stop," she pointed out and his silence affirmed his guilt.

It was true. Dean Winchester was damaged goods as "they" like to say and beyond saving, even for a strong, determined woman like herself. Be that as it may Lisa would try her damnedest to salvage what they had. "You promised not to try and bring him back," she reminded him dashing away tears of frustration as her pain turned to impotent anger.

"I lied," Dean replied flippantly

Lisa pushed him away angrily, away from her and from Ben. Her effort to tie him to her suddenly became pointless. If he could lie to his own brother about respecting his final wishes then there was no way she could ever believe a word he said. "Then you need to go."

snsnsnsn

It only took him half an hour to pack and, as the Impala hurtled down the highway, Dean took another pull on the whiskey bottle, the sharp spirits inside burning his throat as he drank. Exhausted, he rubbed his fingers roughly over his eye lids. The image of Lisa's stony face and accompanying ice cold final words came back to haunt him as he was sure they would for months, if not years, to come. He knew he had hurt her badly but there was no going back once he'd started. The break had to be complete with no chance of reconciliation even if he wanted it. No hairline break but a compound fracture. Lisa Braden needed to think of him not with fond memories but with contempt for what he truly was, damaged goods in mechanic's clothing, come to her door with sad eyes and an equally sad story. Full of regret and self loathing and, just like inviting in a vampire, he had wantonly and cruelly toyed with her feelings, bled her dry emotionally and had finally given her no other choice but to kick him to the curb.

He hadn't started out to hurt Lisa or Ben but in the end he'd done just that. The break had been hard but he was okay with it. It was equally hard for him to face the fact that he had been the cause of the pained and panicked look on Ben's face when Lisa had finally told him to go but the kid would get over it. He would relegate Dean to the douche bag category and one day forget all about him. He loved the kid and would never forget him but it was for the best.

Dean Winchester wanted to cry but he couldn't conjure up a single tear. At that moment he knew he was a dead man walking, a hunter and nothing much else and it was at that moment that he hit the signpost.


	3. Chapter 3

Something was digging into his ankle, something cold and unforgiving. Dean opened his eyes and when the world came into focus he saw water stained, yellowed with age, acoustical ceiling tiles in the soft glow of the light emanating like a halo from behind his head. He didn't remember checking into what had to be the crappiest motel in an inordinately long line of progressively crappy motels.

The room spun and his head throbbed unmercifully when he sat up and he had to fight the urge to retch. He had been put in a bed and covered by a thin; thread bare, pale blue, cotton blanket. Trying to get the rest of the way up and out of the bed, Dean found that his left ankle was handcuffed, footcuffed really, to the rolled stainless steel bed frame. "What the fuck?" he asked under his breath.

Soft snoring sounded to his left and he turned his head cautiously and saw some sort of county cop dozing in a chair next to the door of what he now knew could only be a hospital room. The sounds and smells assaulted him dredging up old, unwanted memories and he reached out with his good hand to try and pull the bedside stand closer in search of his flask. The wheels of the tray hit the frame of the bed and knocked a shiny metal pitcher filled with tepid water onto the floor.

Startled awake, his shoes and pant leg soaked, the deputy blinked sleepily and sat up straighter in his chair and watched as Dean laid back onto his pillow. "Well, well, Sleeping Beauty's finally awake," he yawned sarcastically.

"Bite me," Dean said under his breath and reached up to scratch the unbearable itch at his hairline. A thousand points of pain danced across his scalp when his fingers raked across a good number of stitches. He pressed down and felt the ridges in his scalp, crusted over but still tender to the touch.

Pleased with the confusion in Dean Winchester's eyes and the dumbfounded look on his battered face, the deputy stooped to pick up the pitcher and placed it back on the tray. He then stepped to the foot of the bed and pulled up on the handcuff chain to be sure his prisoner was still secured.

"They have poles that are made to break away but we just haven't got the money to replace the old fashioned wooden ones out on the highway, he started, "You know the ones where the pieces come flyin' up at ya at supersonic speed, usually right through your windshield. You were lucky it didn't hit you square in that pretty face of yours."

If a pole hadn't hit him square in the face than what had? Dean rubbed his jaw gingerly and licked his swollen and split lower lip. He picked up the pitcher, looked at his distorted reflection in it and seeing the bruises and the insanity of his present situation, he started to chuckle half-heartedly. A white-hot band of pain squeezed his ribcage and cut short his laughter.

Stonily, Dean looked to the deputy for answers and the overweight, over the hill and over the top Barney Fife just shrugged his broad shoulders and said with a self-satisfied grin, "Resistin' arrest."

Looking down at his hands, Dean extended his fingers. There were no cuts or bruises nor was there any blood on his cast. He ran his tongue over a cut on the inside of his mouth and was positive there was no way had he'd resisted arrest, not without doing some damage of his own. He wanted to say as much to Barney but the deputy started to drone on about 'them boys up at the South Facility' and how they were 'gonna just eat him up'.

What the fuck was a South Facility? And who were the boys? And where was his flask?

Dean wanted answers and Deputy Dog was more than happy to tell him that the South Facility was a prison and that, even if he did end up in the I_ntensive Treatment Unit,_ the boys were the inmates who were going to make him their bitch. He also mentioned that his flask had been impounded, along with his car.

"Oh, Fuck!"

"Oh, fuck is right," the deputy concurred, "We made a quick inventory of your trunk and can't decide if you're a terrorist, a homicidal priest, a ninja or just a gun nut."

"I've got permits for all of them."

"Bullshit. Beside the knives, the throwing stars and the machete, for Christ's sake, what you've got is a couple of illegal sawed off shotguns and a shit load of hand guns, most of 'em with the serial numbers filed off," the deputy told him. He then started to laugh and wanted to know, "And what's with all them salt rounds? You gonna teach some ducks a lesson 'stead a killing 'em?"

"Is that it?" Dean asked peevishly thinking that handcuffing him to the bed was a tad overkill for a signpost killer.

But that was not it by a long shot. The sadistic bastard had saved the best for last and was overjoyed to tell Dean Winchester that his alcohol level had been three times the legal limit and that the little boy he'd hit with his car had died at the scene.

Dean's stomach twisted into a sickening knot and white dots shown before his eyes and he thought for a moment that he might pass out. What little boy? He closed his eyes and, as if on cue, a face danced before him in the darkness. It was the face of a boy about eight years old dressed in a dark hoodie. It was the same boy who had run out onto the highway in front of the Impala. But he had swerved to miss him. That was why he'd hit the pole. It was either screw up the Impala or hit the kid and as much as he loved the Chevy, he'd naturally gone for the signpost.

"He came outta nowhere, man. He ran right in front of me but I swerved. I missed him," Dean insisted. The last of his declaration was almost a question as his memory faltered for a split second but then he insisted, "I missed that kid." He knew in his heart that he'd swerved in time but he had been drunk, drowning his sorrows in Glenfiddich, all the way from Lisa's house to...

"Hey dude, where am I anyway?" Dean asked and the deputy snorted contemptuously.

"That's deputy Fullbright, dickhead and you're in Rock Springs, Wyoming. The last place a drunken, kid killin', son of a bitch like you wants to be."


	4. Chapter 4

The jail in Rock Springs, Wyoming was old and dank and smelled of urine and despair but Dean preferred it to the hospital. The memory of his father's death wasn't as strong there just as the memory of killing a little boy was non-existent. He couldn't remember a fucking thing from the time the pole smacked him in the head until he woke up in the hospital. How was he supposed to defend himself if he couldn't remember what exactly had happened?

It was a moot point anyway. He'd already made up his mind to just plead guilty to everything and be done with it. The people of Wyoming still believed in an eye for an eye and the death penalty was still on the books but again he didn't care.

At the county jail, they stripped searched him, sprayed him down with lice killer and cold water, then dressed him in an orange jumpsuit. They left him his boots but took the laces...and the last shreds of his dignity. The hunter now lay in the center of his cot; his back braced against the pale green brick wall, one foot up on the gray woolen blanket, the other flat on the ground and waited.

Friday night came and went and his only contact was with a Hispanic woman who brought him his dinner. She spoke no English but his Spanish was good enough to know how she felt when, handing him the tray of unrecognizable slop, she muttered "asesino". He smiled and came back with "presunto asesino" but she wasn't impressed.

Saturday came and went and although he was nauseous and couldn't eat, he longed for the hospital food he'd left behind just a day earlier and he longed for the peace and quiet. The drunks and the derelicts came and went nosily as did the boozers and the brawlers. Only he remained a constant and as the remnants of his potent painkillers wore off, he was left a sweating, vomiting, trembling, agitated, feverish, convulsing wreck lying on his cell floor.

"Hey, tough guy!" Deputy Fullbright called out banging on the cell bars with his baton as if trying to wake the dead, "Time to lawyer up…for all the good it'll do ya."

Dean pulled his hands from his face and squinted as a flashlight beam shined directly into his eyes. It was daylight and the corridor lights were on and shining brightly but the cop thought it was funny. Dean sat up groggily, his mouth foul and feeling like cotton, and stared at the cop stupidly.

Fullbright huffed disgustedly and shoved his key into the lock and slid the heavy door back. Ignoring the stench and the slime on the floor, he leaned down and grabbed the back of Dean's jumpsuit and hauled him to his feet.

"Let's go, shit bird," he said handcuffing his prisoner and propelling him out of the cell and up the stairs to one of the interrogation rooms where he left Dean handcuffed to a metal table.

Bobby Singer watched Dean through the two-way glass and could hardly believe his eyes. The boy looked at least ten years older and sick as a dog and the hunter turned on the deputy and demanded, "Why isn't my client in a hospital where he belongs?"

"We took him to County first thing to get him stitched up. No sense in wasting any more of the taxpayers money on a lousy drunk."

So that was it. Bobby could see it now. He could see the tremors shaking his hands, the cramping doubling him over, the yellow tinge to his skin. Lisa said it was bad but Dean must have been drinking non-stop since…well, since that day.

"I'd like to see my client now, if you don't mind," Bobby said running a finger around the collar and tie that threatened to choke him and before stepping into the room added, "And turn off that damned camera. Attorney-client privilege."

Fullbright did as the law demanded and scowled when Bobby smiled through the glass and closed the blinds.

Dean had heard the door open and thinking it was his court appointed lawyer didn't bother to turn around. He simply said, "You're wasting your time. I'm pleading guilty to everything."

"Is that so, hot shot?"

Dean recognized the voice immediately but still couldn't face him, this time because of all the trouble and embarrassment he'd undoubtedly caused the older hunter. Bobby sat down opposite Dean at the metal table and set his briefcase down flat on it. He ignored Dean's look of surprise and the laughter that threatened to escape.

"Don't say a word," the hunter warned running his fingers over his smooth shaven chin, "Now tell me, son, just what in the hell happened?"

Dean wiped his runny nose on his sleeve and leaned forward, unsure if the room was bugged, and asked in a low voice, "How'd you find me?"

"I reported the Impala stolen and, low and behold, it showed up here. I read the papers and figured this was my best way to get in to see you."

Dean's eyes went cold and he said, "Well, now that you've seen me, you can go."

"I'm here to get you out," Bobby insisted snapping the catches on the briefcase but before he could open it Dean placed his hand on it.

"Listen, Bobby. I appreciate what you're doing…hell, I appreciate all you've done for me all of these years but I'm done. I'm gonna stay here and take my punishment."

"For what? Your statement says you swerved, that you're sure you missed the kid."

A chill ran the length of his body and Dean shivered uncontrollably and started to cough.

When the jag was through he took in a shaky breath and told Bobby, "I was sure before but now I'm not. I don't remember. I was drunk off my ass."

Bobby was sad and pleased at the same time to see the remorse in Dean's eyes and reminded him, "You do know that Wyoming has the death penalty, don't ya?"

"I know but it doesn't matter. A kid's dead and even if I didn't do it, I've done plenty of other things just as bad…or worse."

"We all have but it comes with the job, goes with the territory."

Dean rolled his eyes. Those excuses couldn't placate him any more. The job had gotten way out of hand and the territory had expanded to include Heaven and Hell. He'd signed on to fight Wendigos and Bloody Mary, the stuff of urban legends, not demons and angels.

He'd spent time in hell, time that still haunted him to this day and keeping the twisted thoughts and his terror bottled up inside of him had become a battle twenty four/ seven. A battle he was loosing. He'd also spent time in Heaven battling with Zachariah to keep his very soul and in the end he'd prevailed only to loose it and himself when Sam sacrificed what was left of his own humanity to stop the Apocalypse.

Dean simply shook his head and grimaced as a cramp took hold and when it passed he smiled and said, "Hey man, I appreciate you coming all this way…and putting on a suit…and shaving," he was grinning widely now, "but I'm gonna take my chances."

Bobby opened up the briefcase and running his fingers along the inside bottom edge, lifted up a false flap and produced a set of lock picks. He leaned forward to hide his movements and slid them across the table and said softly, "If I thought you really killed a kid, I'd leave you here to rot."

Instead of pushing the lock picks back to Bobby, Dean held on to them and waited for the 'but'.

"But whatever was buried in that kid's grave ain't there anymore. Maybe it was a shape shifter or a werewolf or even a jackalope but Dean, it wasn't human."

Dean looked into his friend's face and saw the lines that time and circumstance had left behind along with the truth of what he was telling him. He also saw hope in Bobby's eyes and something else and he lowered his own to stare at his hands.

Dean Winchester was tired, he was done and a moment ago he had been at peace with his decision to give up on everything, to give up on life itself. He had decided to place all his chips on death by a jury of his peers and if he did nothing more he could still win…but others would loose.

Dean could see the love in Bobby Singer's eyes as they sat across from one another just as he had seen it in Lisa and Ben's eyes even as she told him to leave. It was heart filling and heart breaking at the same time, just as it had been when he'd said goodbye to Sammy.

Dean knew now that to ignore the fact that people could still love him after all he'd done, after what he'd become, would be committing the greatest sin of all and he told Bobby, "I'll meet you at the impound lot after lights out."


	5. Chapter 5

Bobby could smell the alcohol on him as soon as Dean came near. In the dim lights he could see it in the steadiness of the man's hands as he picked the lock to the fence surrounding the impound lot. The chain slid to the ground noisily and they both could hear the padding feet and low-throated growl of the lot's guard dog.

"What are we gonna do now?" Bobby asked as a massive, full-grown, midnight black pit bull stopped about twenty feet from the gate; slobber dripping from his jowls.

Dean looked at the older hunter with a jaundiced eye and reminded him, "I have a way with dogs…especially big black ones. Just stand here next to the gate.

"_And do what?"_ Bobby thought and looking at Dean as if he were insane, nonetheless took his place to the right of the gate.

His movements caused the dog to stare at them intently and it begin to quiver and whine. Dean was thankful it hadn't charge the fence immediately and used its hesitation to his advantage. He let the gate swing wide and stood in the gap in the fence and called out "Sic 'em, boy," and Cujo charged.

The dog came fast but at the very last second, Dean juked to his right, and the dog overshot the spot where he'd been standing. He grabbed Bobby roughly and pushed him into the yard pulling the gate closed behind them. The dog finally charged the fence but it was now on the outside looking in as Dean flipped the latch down.

"I don't know how long that's gonna hold him," Dean started but Bobby was way ahead of him already running to the small building that served as an office.

Dean pulled out the lock picks and squatted in front of the doorknob. As the dog barked furiously adrenalin pumped through his body and his hands began to shake again and he fumbled, wiping his brow on his jumpsuit sleeve.

"Aw, screw this," Bobby said and smashed his elbow through the window. He reached in and unlocked the door hoping that once they were inside they'd be safe if the dog made an unexpected appearance.

Dean rummaged through the keys hanging from the pegboard behind the desk until he found his own marked with the code 5B. Okay, row B, slot 5, about half the alphabet away from the building. As they made their way to the door, he prayed that the Impala wasn't hemmed in by any other vehicles and when he didn't hear the dog anymore, he prayed that Cujo had simply run off.

No such luck. He saw the dog wandering the lot again and he fished the fifth of Buffalo Trace, the only bottle he could grab before the store owner could get a good look at him in his fashionable orange jumpsuit, a took a long pull.

Bobby's face remained passive even though he was conflicted by his feelings of sadness and disgust. There was even a little guilt thrown into the mix but he hid it well.

"You ready for this, Bobby?" Dean asked and offered the bottle to him.

Struggling for only a second, Bobby declined the offer and asked, "You think he's gonna be as stupid as the last time?"

"Not hardly. You head for the car," Dean suggested pressing the keys into Bobby's hand, "while I lead him away from you."

"And you think this is a good idea?"

"Oh hell no. I just hope Cujo can't climb," and with that he bolted out the door, away from row B.

Bobby watched as the dog spotted the runner and bolted for Dean, while he took off for the far end of the lot.

The Impala was right where the tag indicated, yellow crime tape plastered all over the trunk, a police devil's trap to keep prying eyes and grubbing hands away from the arsenal inside. The driver's door groaned familiarly and the dome light shown down on twinkling pieces of safety glass and dark blood stains on the seat. Bobby quickly brushed away the glass and took a seat behind the wheel. The car started up on the first try and he backed it out of the spot and down the aisle like a demon at a demolition derby.

Once out in the open Bobby stopped the car and looked around for Dean. He spotted the man high atop one of the vehicles making his way from one to the other toward him while at each car Cujo jumped up only to slide back down when his claws couldn't make solid contact. Bobby tried to watch him out the windshield but it was impossible and he quickly slid to the center of the seat and with his back braced against the seat, kicked out what was left of it. He then butted the nose of the car up against the side of the last car in the row Dean was traveling down and as the dog lunged, his teeth tearing the leg of his jumpsuit, Dean dove through the open hole, his momentum taking him halfway into the back seat.

He turned around and flopped down into a sitting position and straightening his long legs said with a laugh, "Hit it, Starsky!"

Bobby floored it and spun out all the way to the gate and like a hellhound on their scent; Cujo chased them, through the gate, out to the interstate and would have followed them all the way to Sioux City if he'd had the strength and the stamina. But as it ended up, Dean was happy to see the last of him as the dog faded to a tiny dot in their rear view mirror, then disappeared altogether.

The two of them were quiet as they headed east on the highway. Bobby glanced sideways at Dean when he again pulled out the glass bottle and drank the remaining liquor without taking a breath but didn't say anything. The young hunter seemed content to have him drive and rubbing his good hand across his eyes sighed in exhaustion.

"I've been meaning to ask you," Bobby said breaking the silence, "What happened to your hand?"

Dean looked down at the cast, no longer pristine white but grimy with dirt and spotted with various fluid including his own blood.

"Had a run in with a wall", was all he said and Bobby was surprised that the usually laid back Winchester son had let his frustrations get the better of him.

"_At least he hadn't hit Lisa…or Ben,"_ he thought as if saying 'at least my boyfriend doesn't hit me' was any better when living with an abusive partner. And that was just what Dean had become.

It had taken the boy twelve more months but he had, in effect, become his father, driving everyone he loved and everyone who loved him away in his quest to kill his demons. Hell, if Lisa hadn't called him he knew damn good and well that Dean Winchester would have never called him no matter how much pain he was in.

But he had him now and he wasn't going to let him slip away, even if it meant stopping at every liquor store from Rock Springs to Sioux Falls and he pulled off the interstate at the next exit and drove a short distance and into a long deserted and dilapidated motel parking lot. Behind the building, hiding in plain sight if one knew where to look, were Bobby's flatbed wrecker and a cover to hide the Impala from prying eyes.

They made the trip in a little under a day and in almost complete silence as Bobby stopped whenever Dean asked him to and continued to drink between nightmare-fueled naps. It was one of the most unbearable trips Bobby had ever had to endure, driving countless mile while watching silently as the only 'son' left to him deliberately continued to try and kill himself. But at least he had him 'home'.

Dean showered and changed into familiar jeans, tee shirt and plaid shirt and with bottle in hand, came up behind Bobby as he sat as his desk ordering a new windshield for the Impala.

"How long 'till my baby's back up and running?" Dean asked and as an explanation for his sudden need to be gone added "Places to go, people to see."

Bobby stood up and looked from the bottle in Dean's hand to his face and the elder Winchester had the decency to blush.

"Listen, son, you dodged a bullet in Rock Springs but it's just a matter of time before you kill somebody for real."

Dean had no comeback to Bobby's statement, no smart assed comment but he did smile lamely and suddenly it infuriated the man.

"Besides," Bobby said and stepped in closer to him, "I've got something for you," and the hunter balled up his fist and punched Dean in the jaw as hard as he could.

Straddling the downed man, Bobby grabbed Dean's shirtfront with one hand and pulled him into a sitting position and looked into the young man's startled green eyes and said, "That's for Lisa".

Hauling back his arm, Bobby hit him again but this time Dean didn't hear him when he said, "And that's for Ben."


	6. Chapter 6

Dean jerked awake, his own scream dieing in his raw throat. He reached out for her but Lisa's warm body wasn't lying next to him. He sat up and wondered just where in the hell he was. Oh yeah, Bobby's...and the son of a bitch had sucker punched him. He took a deep breath and smelled the pungent odor of iron in the thick muggy air mixed with, strangely enough, the smell of sulfur and he knew exactly where in Bobby Singer's house he was.

The panic room was pitch black, not even the moon shown through the devil's trap above and much to Dean's disquiet, a pair of red eyes glowed feverishly not ten feet away from where he sat. Bobby had built the room specifically to keep demons out so just maybe he was deeper into his forced detoxification and the accompanying hallucinations than he thought...until the eyes blinked.

He sat forward on his cot and said with as much force as he could muster, "Listen, whoever you are...whatever you are...I'm retired. Lucifer's back in his cage and I'm done. I don't give a flying fuck whether you possess me or not. I just hope the bitterness of all my failures hasn't tainted my meat suit."

The red eyes closed again and a feral and pain filled growl reverberated around the circular room, no sheet rocked walls or even corners to muffle the terrible sound. Dean jumped up, his arms flailing, and tried to make his way blindly to the light switch. His thigh hit Bobby's metal desk painfully and with his new point of reference he knew the red-eyed demon sat...or hunched right next to the door and the switch.

Dean stopped. His heart hammered in his chest and he was almost panting.

"I could use a little light here," and the demon obliged him.

The lights blinked on and temporarily blinded Dean. Seconds later his eyes adjusted to the light but his mind flat out refused to adjust to the sight before him.

"Sammy?"

Dean Winchester's long lost, supposedly forever, brother sat on a cot on the opposite side of the room but instead of having free reign to walk around; he was chained by his neck to the wall.

"What the fuck, dude?" Dean asked only to be met by silence.

He was desperate for answers, as well as a good stiff drink, but with Sam's continued reticence and Bobby's sudden induction into the Woman's Christian Temperance Union the chance he'd get either seemed pretty damned remote.

Ignoring the five hundred pound demon in the room for the moment Dean sat down at the small metal desk and began searching through the drawers. They were empty. It looked as if Bobby had removed everything in the room except for the two cots and the chain around Sam's neck.

Looking down at his hands Dean noticed that they had begun to tremble just as they had when he'd been incarcerated in Rock Springs. It was beginning again. First he would start to shake. Check. Then he would start to shiver. Check again as he was suddenly chilled to the bone. Then he would heat up like a blast furnace and break into a sweat...right before puking up his guts. But he wasn't the only one.

The floor next to the cot on which Sam sat was covered in blood, as was his shirtfront.

"Dude, are you all right?"

Sam heard Dean ask the question and a lame laugh escaped him. He wasn't all right nor was the demon whose blood now lay splattered all over the floor at his feet. Bobby had "sucker punched" him, too.

The older, and often times more clever, hunter had given Sam the means with which to locate Baal, one of the seven princes of hell and after seeing the prince in someone's flesh, he'd given him the means with which to kill it. But Bobby had filled the demon he'd selected to juice Sam so full of dragon's blood that when he'd finally cut her throat and drunk his fill, the young hunter would have been hard pressed to bitch slap the diminutive Prince Rogers Nelson let alone destroy a bona fide prince of Gehenna.

As he was being hauled down the stairs, thrown on the cot and chained to the wall, Bobby had insisted that it was for his own good. How could poisoning him to the point of projectile vomiting and letting a lesser but extremely powerful demon get away be for anyone's good? And now, to make matters worse, he was face to face with his biggest demon of all, his own brother.

The brother from whom he'd extracted a promise he knew Dean would be hard pressed to keep, a promise that had almost torn his brother apart. The brother who had been living the all American, apple-pie dream, with a loving family and a job that didn't involve monsters or mayhem, and who, by the looks of him, had fucked it all up. But worst of all the man who stood before him was the brother he'd kept in the dark for a year.

Coming as close as he dared, Dean ask Sam one simple question in a quavering voice.

"How long?"

Sam took a deep breath and told him, "Almost a year."

The words hit Dean so hard he physically took a step back.

"How?"

It was another simple question and it demanded a simple answer. Without a word Sam pulled his left shoulder free of his soiled blue plaid flannel shirt and pulled up the sleeve of his gray tee shirt.

Dean saw the imprint on Sam's arm, an exact match to the one he had on his own. Castiel had pulled his brother from the cage. It was a joyful revelation but tempered with the pain of betrayal. The whole time Dean had been bound by his promise to let him go, to not try to rescue him, the whole time every fiber in his being and every voice in his head had screamed to do just that, Sam had been free. Free to continue hunting, free to go on chugging demon bloody marys, free to bang hot waitresses, free to forget he even had a brother... …and all that time Castiel had known.

Impotent rage filled Dean Winchester and tears sprang unbidden to his eyes which made him angrier still. He wanted to scream at Sam but once he started he knew he wouldn't be able to stop. His whole body trembled and his vision darkened but he kept control…until he heard the angels laugh…or maybe it was the demons.


End file.
